Here he was the summer of '29, <br />driving a coal truck from upstate down route <br />611 towards Philly. He bought <br />cosmos at a road side stand <br />with a few pennies and shifted through <br />six gears. Drifting in and out of sleep, the lines <br />of imagination swerved <br />as he thought of her waiting on the front <br />porch, snapping beans. Waiting for him. Just <br />him. He would go directly to her after <br />dumping the final load of coal. He would <br />walk up, in his dusty work clothes, <br />a green thermos under his left arm, his <br />right hand behind his back: <br />the calloused hand, the delicate cosmos, <br />a still life of their own. She'd place <br />the strainer of beans on her lap & lean left <br />to peek behind him, but he'd shift his weight <br />from one foot to another extending <br />the thrill of his prize. Music would play <br />and their shadows would fox trot, <br />lope or pace. The music <br />would be carried, not by air, <br />but touch. He would stand there <br />a life time, admiring her hands folded, <br />the knuckles red from scrubbing floors; <br />she'd reach out and touch his left hand. <br />No words; words were for the unfamiliar. <br />Gestures, turns, a bit of eye contact <br />spoke proof. He'd bring his hand <br />from behind his back and deliver the flowers <br />that suffered the same exhausting trip <br />in the dump truck arriving <br />where they finally belonged.<br /><br />Tim Gavin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-she-circa-1929/
